How to Talk to Women
by mille libri
Summary: Sent by the Warden Commander to talk to their newest recruit, Nathaniel Howe finds he might have gained as much as he gave.
1. In the Chantry

_This story is dedicated to suilven, for her patience and supportiveness. With thanks to WellspringCD for her excellent betaing!_

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Nathaniel Howe perched on the edge of the Warden Commander's desk. He had his arms crossed and his best intimidating glower firmly fixed on his face, but they didn't seem to be making an impact on his superior. "I still don't understand why you want _me_ to talk to her."

"Maker's breath, Nate, you know I can't talk to women! I get all tongue-tied and my feet grow four sizes and if the women don't run screaming from me like I'm some kind of oversized deepstalker, they pat my head like a mabari puppy." Alistair sighed unhappily. "I'd probably just make things worse."

Whatever response Nathaniel might have drummed up to that undeniably true litany was shattered by the loud cry of "Ali-STAIR!" that resounded through the keep.

The owner of that name stood up and walked to his office door, shouting back, "Try it a little louder next time! I don't think they heard you in Par Vollen."

"You don't seem to have any trouble talking to _that_ woman."

"That's because Caron isn't a woman. She's some sort of Fade demon with a sword for a tongue who is my punishment for something terrible I did in a past life." Nonetheless, Alistair straightened his armor and anxiously checked his hair in the glass before leaving the room in response to the summons from his second-in-command.

Nathaniel allowed himself a brief smirk at his commander's expense before returning his attention to the problem at hand. He agreed with Alistair—someone did have to talk to their new recruit. He just wished it didn't have to be him.

He found her right where he had expected to, kneeling before the statue of Andraste in the Chantry. For a long moment he stood in the doorway, listening to the soft sniffles that came from her, before moving into the room. It took conscious effort to make enough noise with his steps that she heard him coming; his natural tendency was to walk silently, but he didn't want to startle her.

Bethany looked up, swiping the back of her hand furtively across her cheeks as though she could hide the telltale tracks of her tears. "Warden Howe! I'm sorry, have I missed a meeting?"

"No, nothing requires your presence just now. The Commander sent me to find you."

"He did?"

Nathaniel was surprised to see the trepidation in her eyes, as he always was when the new recruits insisted on seeing Alistair as some kind of heroic figure. They also invested him with a great deal more sternness than the genial Warden Commander had ever dreamed of possessing. Of course, knowing Alistair as he did, Nathaniel supposed it was better that the recruits were awed by him than that they laugh at him. And he had to admit that Alistair's discomfort at being treated like a commander afforded Nathaniel no end of amusement.

"Am I in some kind of trouble?" Bethany asked when Nathaniel didn't answer her question.

"Nothing of the sort. The Commander is concerned for you, as we all are."

"Oh. I'm not ill, if that's what you're wondering. The Joining worked."

"That isn't what I meant, and I think you well know it, Bethany."

She sighed, facing forward again. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Which is it? You're fine now, or you'll be fine at some undisclosed future point?" Nathaniel took a seat in the front pew, hoping that the young Mother who ran the Chantry would keep her nose out of the room. Mother Sophronia was young and enthusiastic, and far more moderate than most, but he thought the Chantry's teachings were likely to be of limited guidance here.

Bethany shook her head. "I don't know."

"Well, now we're getting somewhere. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Her mouth opened, as though she was about to let her words fly, but then she glanced up at him, her cheeks reddening, and shook her head. "I can't speak to you."

"Why not?" With a flash of horror, he wondered if it was some kind of female problem.

"You're a Warden."

"Ah," he said with relief. "If you're looking for a non-Warden to unburden yourself to, you're going to have a time of it."

"I know."

"But we aren't going to let you sit here and cry by yourself, either," Nathaniel said, his tone brooking no argument. "So let's hear it."

She hesitated, and Nathaniel ostentatiously leaned back against the back of the pew, stretching out his legs.

"This is my assignment, Warden. I can wait all day."

Bethany bit her lip, looking up at Andraste as though seeking divine guidance. "How do you live with ... it?"

"It?"

"The taint."

"Oh. That." He crossed his arms, considering. "I don't give it much thought, really."

"But can't you feel it, heavy and thick and ... disgusting, in your very blood? Eating away at your body from the inside out?" She spoke in a rapid whisper, shuddering.

"No." Nathaniel had never been one for letting his imagination torture him; reality did that well enough.

"I can." She was silent for a moment, then her hands clenched into fists and she pounded them on her thighs. "I hate being a Warden! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

Nathaniel didn't move; he just kept watching her.

Bethany glanced at him. "You probably think I'm horrible. Everyone here seems to think that the Wardens are the most important, special, wonderful thing in Thedas."

It was true; Alistair was inordinately proud of being a Warden, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Nathaniel leaned forward, catching her gaze. "I don't."

Her lips parted, and he noticed rather incongruously that her mouth was lovely, her lips so full and soft. He'd never looked at her this closely before.

"Really?" she asked, her eyes brightening with relief.

"Not everyone chooses to be a Warden, you know. In my case, I had the choice between conscription and death, and it was a long while before I was certain I'd made the right decision."

"I see. I think it was the same for me, but I didn't get to make the choice. My brother made it for me."

"Would you rather have died?"

"I don't know! But wasn't it my right to decide? Wasn't it my life? Since I was seven years old, I've been dragged here and there by people trying to protect me. 'Oh, poor little Bethany, too small to hide her magic.' 'Sweet little Bethany, couldn't possibly fight the darkspawn.' 'Innocent little Bethany, too pure to get her hands dirty working with smugglers.' It shouldn't have been a surprise that I couldn't even choose to die without my brother stepping in to take matters into his own hands."

Nathaniel couldn't help thinking of his father, whose word had been law. "Now that, I understand."

Bethany blinked at him, startled out of her rant by the grim tone of his voice.

He shook himself out of the memories, having learned long ago that the dark place inside him was fathoms deep and entirely too easy to lose himself in. "Nonetheless, yours or not, the choice was made."

"It wasn't fair," she muttered.

"Nothing is."

"That's too simplistic," Bethany shot back. Nathaniel was glad to hear the spirit in her voice, replacing the respectful monotone she had used since her arrival. "Don't you have anything better to say than that hoary old chestnut?"

He snorted a brief laugh. "The Wardens didn't recruit me for my cheerful disposition and ready stock of uplifting commentary."

"No, I suppose they wouldn't have. They don't, really, do they? I mean, the Wardens are all about death. We carry it in our veins, we bring it to others." She looked down at her hands—small, well-formed, clearly cared for, the fingers narrow and nimble. Nathaniel briefly considered reaching out to take one in his and then caught himself as she went on. "I always thought it would be nice to create things with my magic. To heal, or to build something, or ... I don't know. But it seems that magic is mostly used to destroy, especially here in the Grey Wardens."

There was no denying the truth of the statement. The Grey Wardens with their secrets and their nightmares and, yes, their tainted blood were far more about death than life. The occasional visits Oghren's child and Nathaniel's own small nephew made to the Vigil were startling reminders that outside the walls life moved on, children grew, people worked toward a future that didn't have its ending date already spelled out.

"That must sound foolish to you," Bethany said when Nathaniel didn't respond.

"No. I rather agree with you."

"You do? I'd have thought you'd be the last person ... I mean ..." She blushed, clearly thinking she might have offended him.

"I can see why you might think that. My outlook is not always cheerful."

"Mine used to be. I just can't see a way to be happy here."

"It would make the Commander sad to hear that. One thing you can say about Alistair, he is almost relentlessly good-tempered." It was one of the things that Nathaniel admired about his friend, and one of the traits that annoyed him the most.

"So I've heard. He seems kind, but ..."

"You don't wish him to know how unhappy you are."

Bethany bit her lip. "I haven't hidden it that well, have I?"

"No." It was an understatement; this was the longest conversation anyone had been able to draw from her, by far.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a burden."

"You are not a burden; we are concerned about you." Nathaniel leaned forward, lifting her chin on the tips of her fingers, and trying to keep his mind off the softness of her skin and the luminosity of her amber eyes. "I've seen what happens to Wardens who allow themselves to be consumed by despair."

"Or Justice," she whispered, and they shared a pained look.

"Exactly. I would not want to see something similar happen to you."

"Why not? You barely know me."

Why not, indeed? He let his fingers fall away from her supple skin and sat back. Was it just because, now that he had seen her up close, spoken to her, he found her lovely? Or because he was drawn to the lively spirit he was glimpsing and reluctant to see it crushed further?

"You're right," he said at last. "I don't know you. But I think I would like to." He hadn't intended his voice to dip huskily on the last phrase, revealing the surprising attraction he had begun to feel for her. Clearing his throat, he said, "And I would hate to see you allow your brother's choice to rob you of your life. Making the best of your life as a Warden isn't just meekly going along with what he decided for you; it's the best way you have to take control of your own future. The Wardens are about death, but you don't have to be, even as a Warden. Alistair is more full of life than anyone I know—"

"Especially around Caron," Bethany interrupted, displaying heretofore unseen dimples as she smiled. It was the first smile he had ever seen on her face, and he was immediately determined it wouldn't be the last.

"You've noticed that, too, have you?" He chuckled, and she laughed with him, the sound drawing him toward her. Their eyes met, Nathaniel's breath catching in his throat as Bethany's tongue delicately moistened her lower lip. Her extremely full lower lip. "So, uh ..." He reached desperately for the thread of his lost thoughts.

"I thought I heard voices in here!" The cheerful voice of Mother Sophronia echoed in the room, and Nathaniel and Bethany moved apart as though stung. "Wardens, is there anything I can help you with today?"

Hastily, Nathaniel stood up. "No, I was just going." Mother Sophronia's good humor was too much for him, and he didn't care for the Chantry's messages. "Warden Bethany, I look forward to ... uh ..."

"Finishing the conversation we started?" She smiled, really smiled, and he was almost surprised into smiling back. "So do I." Bethany stood up, putting a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Warden Nathaniel. I will take your advice. It's time for me to stop railing against my fate and decide what I want for a change. I think ... I think I may already know." She blushed, ducking her head and moving past him with a spring in her step he hadn't seen before.

Mother Sophronia was looking at him with a knowing smile that didn't irritate him nearly as much as it should have. As he left the Chantry, it occurred to him that he was very glad Alistair didn't know how to talk to women.


	2. A Foreign Tongue

_Thanks to suilven for doing such a great job with yet another fiction exchange - your hard work and patience are always appreciated! Special thanks to KCousland for providing the "Orlesian" translations._

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"Last bit, then—the workers in Kal'Hirol swear they've seen signs of darkspawn."

"Brontoshit!"

"Yes, Oghren?" Alistair looked across his desk at his subordinate.

"Them dusters'd say anything needed to get out o' workin'."

"Probably true."

"So we're not goin' down there an' hold their pretty little hands, are we?"

"Of course we are not," Caron stated firmly.

"Well … if there's a chance they're right," Alistair said, squirming in his chair.

"_Merde_!"

Alistair winced. "You disagree, Warden Caron?" he asked in as polite a tone as he could muster.

"You cannot let these men push you around! They call to you every time they wish to stop working, and you just trot down there."

"I do not! Mostly I stride. Every once in a while I jog. Sometimes I amble. But I don't trot!"

"Typical," Caron spat, getting up from her chair. Her brown eyes sparked fire; her long brown braid swung heavily over her shoulder as she tossed her head.

Alistair was aware of the other Senior Wardens quietly getting up and leaving the room. He was tempted to call them back, but there would be little purpose to it. Caron would need to have her say, and his authority would seem less questionable if everyone in the keep wasn't there to witness him taking the receiving end of another tongue-lashing. He sighed. "What's so typical, Caron?"

"You! Never can you answer a question. Always with the funny comments so no one notices you did not truly respond to what they said. I ask you, Alistair, why is it that you always go wherever you are called? Why do you not make the decisions as to where and when to pursue the darkspawn?"

Her presumption got the better of any thought he'd had of keeping his temper. He got to his feet, staring down at her. "Because they're people! And if there's any chance—any chance at all—that there are darkspawn down there, it's worth our time. I don't know what you think you have to do that's of more use."

As he'd expected, Caron didn't back down. She took a step closer to him. "There were no darkspawn down there the last time, nor the time before that. How many times must you rush down there for nothing before you stop falling for their lies?"

"Apparently at least one more," he said, his tone implacable. They were practically nose-to-nose now as Alistair leaned down to be sure she was getting the full impact of his refusal to be bullied. How had he never noticed the green flecks in her brown eyes?

"You are not suited to be a leader, and I will write so to Weisshaupt," she said in a low, dangerous voice. "You are too spineless to—"

He had to shut her up; he couldn't bear to hear any more of his failings from those red lips. So he put his hands on her shoulders and pressed his mouth against hers, catching her in mid-word.

Caron squeaked in a pleasingly undignified manner, and Alistair took that as encouragement to pull her against him and keep kissing her. He'd never kissed anyone before, and this was … nice. Warm.

And then her tongue moved between her parted lips and touched his. He gasped and suddenly found her tongue inside his open mouth. It was—erotic, the feel of that soft, wet tongue. As the kiss deepened, Alistair found himself hardening, and he leaped away, panic-stricken at what he had done. And with Caron, of all people! Surely that was a breach of protocol.

"I'm so sorry. So very sorry. I overstepped my bounds; it won't happen again, I promise." He was babbling, he knew that, but she was staring at him with her eyes narrowed and he had messed up royally this time. Literally royally—he'd never felt quite so much like his father before. "I am so sorry," he said again.

"Why do you make such a big fuss out of a simple kiss? What are you, a virgin?"

Alistair could feel the blood heating his face, and he knew she could read the confirmation there.

"_Merde_!"

He'd seen her look like this before, the tension in her jaw, the angry tapping of her foot like the twitching of a cat's tail. Usually it was accompanied by a flood of Orlesian, leaving him standing there feeling like a fool because he had no idea what she was saying. He was surprised when silence followed the single, explosive word.

He was even more surprised when her strong, scarred hands cupped his face and pulled him down implacably for another kiss. It was a shorter one this time, but no less intense. Then she released him, turning her back and stomping out of the room. He could hear her progress down the hall: _Stomp. "Merde!" Stomp. "Un putain de puceau!"* Stomp. "J'aurais dû m'en douter."**_

Apparently, he was going to have to learn Orlesian.

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{*"A fucking virgin!" **"I should have known."}


End file.
